


I Will Wait

by itsacoup



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Developing Relationship, Didn't Know They Were Dating, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-22
Updated: 2014-12-22
Packaged: 2018-03-02 20:00:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2824379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsacoup/pseuds/itsacoup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>James comes by Paul’s house before he leaves. Nobody is surprised by this, Paul least of all, but what is surprising is how much it hurts to look at James standing in the doorway and know that this is something of an ending.</i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Paul thinks it's an ending. James has other plans.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Will Wait

**Author's Note:**

> Okay everybody let's all say thanks to [nebulia](http://archiveofourown.org/users/nebulia/pseuds/nebulia) who (like, over a month ago, oops) tagged me in a post about pining James/Paul and James conniving to MAKE THIS HAPPEN even though Paul's a resistant dumbass. This is a thing I definitely love, so I wrote it. It's my life, I do what I want.

James comes by Paul’s house before he leaves. Nobody is surprised by this, Paul least of all, but what is surprising is how much it hurts to look at James standing in the doorway and know that this is something of an ending. James quickly ends up sprawled like usual across Paul’s couch, left foot propped up on the armrest, right foot flat on the ground, arms stretched up over his head to take up literally all of the available couch space.

 

“Up, Nealer,” Paul says, when he comes out from the kitchen with popcorn and beer. It’s their movie night ritual, James stealing the whole couch and Paul harassing him into making room, and his heart burns a little at the thought of this being the last time they do this for a long time.

 

“Urgh,” James groans exaggeratedly, flopping his arms. “Don’t want to.”

 

“No beer for you,” Paul says, sitting the popcorn bowl on the coffee table, well out of arm’s reach. Paul learned his lesson about Nealer’s wingspan early on.

 

“Gimmie,” Nealer says, opening and closing his hands as Paul stands over him.

 

“Nope.”

 

“You’re the worst,” James says, hauling himself up by core strength alone, and Paul drops onto the couch behind Nealer in his normal spot. James hesitates for a moment, his back to Paul, but before Paul can ask, Nealer swings both his feet around up on the coffee table, tipping his head back to look at the ceiling as he slouches into the couch.

 

“ _James_ ,” Paul says, because he just can’t help himself. Feet don’t belong on the coffee table, and James knows it.

 

“ _Paul_ ,” James says back, and wiggles his toes, aiming a snotty smile at the ceiling. Paul wants to punch him. “Let me have this, dude,” James says, quieter, and Paul swallows.

 

“You ready to start?” Paul asks, and presses play after James nods his way to looking at the screen.

 

It’s eleven thirty and Iron Man has been over for at least an hour. (It was James’ turn to choose, and he has an inexplicable love for Tony Stark. Paul fears it’s because Nealer thinks he’s half that cool.) It’s quiet, but comfortably so. Paul has the windows open, so the wind carries in the rhythmic rise and fall of cricket chirps and a fresh green smell.

 

“It’s time for me to get going,” James says, voice barely above a whisper. In that second, Paul hates him; he hates that James is going to take this moment away from him, is going to rip away the peace that had settled between them, would sully the growing scent of summer with the terrible reality of what this night means.

 

“Okay,” Paul says, and walks James to the front door. James shoves his feet into his flip-flops and then turns enough to give Paul a fathomless look. Paul hadn’t bothered to turn the hall light on, so James is a study in shadows, his eyes the darkest of them all.

 

Paul is surprised when James reaches out, wrapping his arms around Paul, one low and tight across Paul’s waist and the other diagonally across Paul’s back. Paul clutches at James instinctively, his arms cradling James’ wide shoulders.

 

They stand like that for a long time. The world around them fades away, until all Paul can hear is the hush of James’ breath, all he can feel is the warmth of James and the tiny thump of their heartbeats, perfectly in time.

 

Eventually, James squeezes Paul’s waist, dragging his upper hand across Paul’s shoulder blade in a quick caress, and then lets go.

 

“See you,” James says. “Text me.” Paul is still trying to remember how to talk when James ghosts out the front door.

 

“Bye,” Paul says to the door, nearly five minutes later, and he pretends that his voice didn’t crack. His eyes are watering; the ragweed must be blooming already, for his allergies to be that bad, so he goes around and closes all the windows before going to bed.

 

There’s a text waiting on Paul’s phone when he wakes up the next morning. _I fucking hate moving_ , it says, and the one below it is _this coffee sucks, what the hell do you do to yours to make it so good_ , and below that _seriously Paul this is a crisis what do I do to the coffee_.

 

 _Don’t go to Starbucks, idiot_ , Paul responds, and throws his phone to the side. He stands in the shower until the steam is so thick he can barely see the door. His skin feels burned clean, but he’s still uneasy, restless in his body, and it feels worse in the kitchen. He snags a greek yoghurt from the fridge and an avocado from the counter and calls it good, retreating to the couch to eat. All that’s on is the news, and Channel 11 is up to their normal fear-mongering, but it’s better than the echoing silence.

 

Paul thinks that’ll be the end of it, but it really isn’t. Nealer texts him all the time, a mix of inane observations with little to no context, questions that he really should know the answer to by now, and questions he does know the answer to and asks anyway because it irritates the shit out of Paul. Some days Paul can barely bring himself to respond, and some days Paul will even text James first.

 

It’s the middle of August when James texts and says _I’m tired of texting my thumbs hurt you need to get skype, old man_

 

 _I don’t know, these newfangled technologies are so complicated_ , Paul texts back before searching for Skype in the app store. By the time Nealer texts back _arggggghhhhh_ Paul’s setting up an account. He sends a request to James and nearly immediately his phone rings with an incoming call. Paul answers it, and once James fuzzes into being on the screen, he gasps outrageously.

 

“Paul, I’m so proud of you!” James squeals, eyes exaggeratedly wide, and Paul shakes his phone a little.

 

“Shut up,” Paul says, but he’s laughing, he can’t help himself. He feels a little flushed—the AC keeps resetting itself, he needs to check on it again—but he relaxes back into the couch as James launches into a chattering story about lunch with Dicky and some other people. Eventually Paul has to go to meet up with some of the guys, and while he hardly got a word in edgewise the whole time with Nealer, he’s still happy enough after that Kuni gives him the side eye over lunch and asks, “You go out doily shopping or something? Haven’t seen you smile like that in a while.”

 

“Afghans, actually,” Paul says, because at this point he’s learned to own the little old lady jokes.

 

“Right on,” Kuni says, and gives Paul a friendly elbow to the side.

 

James calls him kind of a lot on Skype after that. He’s finally started house hunting and he wants Paul’s opinion on everything. It’s not like Paul has much else on his schedule, so James sends him calendar invites for all of the house tours and totes his phone around to show Paul everything.

 

At the fifth house, Paul says, “Nealer, you’re hell on my phone battery.”

 

James says, “Paulie, get a tablet.”

 

“Like what, an iPad?”

 

James flips cameras, so the view goes from a pretty nice river rock fireplace to James rolling his eyes at Paul. “Do you think you’d figure out how to work any other kind?”

 

“I could,” Paul says belligerently, but when an iPad shows up at his door the next day, he doesn’t really complain.

 

James can’t settle on a house, so their Skype calls transition to watching Game of Thrones together and showing each other whatever they’re doing, which a lot of the time is cooking. Paul is reluctantly impressed; apparently James paid enough attention to try and dupe some of Paul’s recipes, so Paul drops in pointers where he can. They do a lot of sitting around and just talking, though, too, and both of them could probably write an essay about the various NHL dramas on each others’ teams.

 

One day, when Paul calls, it takes James forever to pick up. He’s contemplating hanging up when the ringing finally stops.

 

“What’s up, sorry,” Nealer pants, flushed, and his shirt looks like it’s sticking around his neck.

 

“Sorry, was I interrupting? Do I want to know what you were up to?” Paul asks, and he feels a little sick. It’s rude to interrupt, after all.

 

But James just snorts and pulls at his shirt. “Yeah, interrupting the cleaning,” James says. “Dicky threw a little cookout last night, the place was a disaster. It was time for a break anyway.”

 

“Cool,” Paul says, and like that they’re off and running into the usual gossip. Eventually, James has to beg off to finish up his cleaning, but just as Paul goes to hang up, James blurts, “Wait—wait.”

 

“Yeah?” Paul asks, thumb hovering over the hang up button.

 

“I miss you,” James says, so quiet, and Paul takes a deep, shaky breath.

 

“I miss you too, James,” Paul says, and James nods.

 

“See you,” James says flippantly and hangs up. Paul spends the rest of the day deep cleaning, TV blaring with one action movie after another to fill the house with more activity than just his.

 

Somehow, suddenly, it’s October, and the Pens’ flight is landing in Nashville. The whole team is a little jittery with energy, the first burn of excitement at the start of the season still going strong, plus a little extra edge because of Nealer and Hornqvist.

 

The game is what it is, but they get a good group together to go out for drinks after. Paul’s standing in the hall, waiting for the stragglers to wander out, when something slams into his back and latches on around his waist.

 

“Hi, Paul,” James says, low and directly into Paul’s ear, and Paul tries to suppress the shiver that goes down his spine.

 

“Hi Nealer,” Paul says, louder, and James lets go.

 

They’re deep in conversation by the time Sid and Geno—the last ones, as always—emerge from the changing room to complete their ragtag band of Pens and Preds, and they make it all the way to a table at the bar before they get interrupted.

 

Paul is saying something about the benefits of an open plan first floor, because James still isn’t convinced but the ninth house really had a great setup, when Geno grabs both of them under his arms.

 

“How you know this?” Geno demands, pinching Nealer’s arm when he tries to wriggle away. “Not fair, Paulie knows all news, very confusing for us. Houses? You look for houses?”

 

“I’m not taking you house shopping, G, you have the worst taste. I’d end up with the Terminator in my front yard,” James says, and Geno pinches him on the arm again. James’ yelp is followed by some serious flailing, so Geno drops Paul so he can get both hands buried in James’ hair to muss it.

 

Finally, a call of “Shots!” from Tanger at the bar distracts Geno, and he lets go of James to go hunt down the vodka. James drops back into the booth, pawing sadly at his hair.

 

“For Chrissakes, come here,” Paul says, exasperated, and James tips his head over. Paul runs his fingers through gently, tugging until James looks a little less electrocuted. Paul maybe—keeps going a little, but he forces himself to stop when he catches sight of everyone else doing shots at the bar.

 

“Thanks,” James says, and Paul nods, clearing his throat.

 

“Shots?” Paul offers, and it turns out that that’s the beginning of the end.

 

“I was—I was going to take you back to my house,” Pauls slurs, and he feels his forehead wrinkle as he thinks. “This isn’t my house.”

 

“It’s Dicky’s house,” James offers helpfully as he fumbles with the keypad, apparently at least as drunk as Paul going by the way he’s mashing the buttons.

 

“Why are we at Dicky’s house?” Paul asks, examining the pot of flowers to his left. It’s actually a nice pot, with three different kinds of flowers in it. Lots of colors.

 

“Because your house is too far away,” James says, and then gives a little yell of triumph as the door clicks open. “C’mon, inside!”

 

“Shouldn’t I be at the hotel?” Paul wonders, standing in the foyer. James is teetering as he toes off his shoes, even though he’s got a hand on the wall too.

 

“Take your shoes off,” James says, and Paul obeys. “Okay, this way.” Paul trails him into a kitchen that’s startlingly familiar, considering he’s only seen it through a shitty phone camera, and James extracts some Gatorade from the fridge and then shoos at Paul. “Out of the kitchen, out, go.”

 

“But—why am I here?” Paul says, and James overtakes him and starts heading up the stairs.

 

“Because you’re supposed to be here, duh,” James says scathingly, and Paul wants to be scathing back but they’ve apparently arrived at their destination, which is good, because the stairs were starting to swim alarmingly.

 

“You—what—God, Paulie, here, _sit_ ,” James says and pushes on Paul’s shoulders, so Paul sits. James shoves a gatorade bottle into Paul’s hand, too, and focuses mightily to twist the cap off for Paul. “Drink.”

 

Paul drinks and wonders vaguely about what’s happening. On some level it feels pretty backwards—he’s always taken care of James, James is the hopeless one. But on the other hand, it feels pretty nice, and he doesn’t want to think about why or when it’ll end or what it means, so he sits and drinks his damn gatorade.

 

James reappears—Paul hadn’t realized he disappeared until he was back—and the gatorade is gone. James takes the bottle, caps it, and throws it carelessly on the floor behind him.

 

“I’ll take care of it tomorrow,” James says, clearly anticipating Paul’s comment, and then starts tugging at Paul’s shirt. “Come on, bedtime.” Oh, Paul’s sitting on a bed. That’s nice. He laboriously strips his shirt off, and unbuttons and unzips his jeans, but the thought of standing up enough to get them off is a little daunting.

 

James is trapped in his shirt now, anyway, because he’s an idiot and never unbuttons it and then his elbows get tangled, so Paul reaches forward to help him skim it off. Paul’s fingers brush along James’ spine in the process, and James shudders.

 

“You cold? You should turn up the heat,” Paul says, and James snorts.

 

“Sure, Paulie,” he says, and then they’re both collapsed onto the bed and horizontal pants removal is a lot more achievable than sitting pants removal, so finally they’re both down to underwear.

 

James wrestles the covers out from under them and flips them up, letting the sheet billow and drape gently over them. “Night, Paulie,” he says, and his voice is laden with something that Paul wants to ask about but it’s too late, his head is too heavy and speaking takes too much effort.

 

Paul wakes up early the next morning, mouth dry and foul from the alcohol, but only a slight headache dancing behind his eyes. Someone is curled up behind him, skin to skin, and Paul’s heart jolts when he recognizes the sound of James’ mouth breathing. His first instinct is to kick out, but it wars with the warm contentment he’s feeling, and apparently some of that inner turmoil wakes James.

 

“You’re not allowed to run away,” James says fiercely, and his arms are tight about Paul’s middle but it’s the words that keep him still.

 

“What would I be running away from?” Paul asks, because it’s too early in the morning for filters, but he instantly regrets it for fear of the answer.

 

“Me, you dumbass,” James says, and his thumb strokes at Paul’s bare belly gently, at odds with his harsh tone.

 

“I don’t understand,” Paul finally ventures, because he really doesn’t. He feels so settled and easy right now, muscles jellied with relaxation, and the hot stick of his back to Nealer’s front should be a lot less pleasing than it is.

 

“I’d like to be allowed to say I’m dating you now instead of pretending it isn’t anything,” James says, and that was the last thing Paul expects.

 

“We’re not dating,” but Paul’s heart is beating wildly, leaping into his throat.

 

“Didn’t I just say I don’t want to pretend it isn’t anything?” James says snippily, and then runs his whole hand up and down Paul’s stomach, firmly enough not to tickle. “I couldn’t call it dating, because then you really would’ve run, so we just talked all the time and I showed you all the houses and my cooking and whatever to get you used to it so then we could call it dating.”

 

“Dating?” Paul asks. He feels left out of the conversation.

 

“Our anniversary is July eighth,” James tells him. “I expect a joint vacation for our first anniversary present.”

 

“Is that so,” Paul says faintly.

 

“It’s mostly so I can fuck you silly in a beach house,” James says.

 

Paul feels his face practically light on fire at that, but the revulsion he’s half-expecting never arrives. It actually sounds...pretty nice. He thinks about it for a bit, prods the thought around: _this is my boyfriend, James_. It sounds good in his head.

 

“So?” James finally, and there’s a tentative note threading through his voice.

 

“I better not have to wait until July to get some,” Paul says, and then grunts as James squeezes him.

 

“That’s what I’m talkin’ ‘bout!” James crows, and Paul wonders how impolite it would be to start bitching about James right after he agreed to date him. Well, keep dating him.

 

James tugs at Paul’s shoulder until Paul rolls onto his back. James floats into view, hair tousled wildly, and he’s grinning so widely that Paul’s not sure they’ll be able to accomplish anything. James slides on top of Paul, tangling their legs and propping himself up on his elbows. His face is— _really_ close to Paul’s, to the point where Paul feels a little cross-eyed trying to look at him.

 

“Hi,” James says, soft and a little doofy, and Paul snorts.

 

“Hello James, how are you today?” Paul asks, fake-formal, just to get James to laugh.

 

“I’m quite excellent, Paul, and you?” James returns, fluttering his eyelashes outrageously.

 

Paul hums, putting on a thinking face. “Not bad, I guess,” he says slowly. “Could be better.”

 

“Well, that’s a shame,” James says, and he’s still smiling, but he looks a little unsure around the eyes.

 

“It is,” Paul agrees gravely, and James is shifting a little to get his knees under him, so Paul grabs James’ hips, pulls at them until James allows his lower body to fall back down with an oomph. “ _Stay_. Would you like to know how it could be better?”

 

“Uh….sure?” James says, and his confused pout is real now.

 

“So as it turns out, I have this boyfriend and he’s been holding out on me. If he has any hope of hanging on to me, he’d better fix that right now.” James’ face has transitioned to shell-shocked, and Paul feels a pang of uncertainty. “But if that’s too fast, I mean, it’s actually fine, I just thought—”

 

“No!” James yelps, and his hands clutch at Paul’s hair. “No,” James continues at a more reasonable volume. “It’s good, it’s fine, I’m just surprised, I thought it would be a while until you were okay—”

 

James will ramble on forever if Paul doesn't stop him, so Paul says firmly, “James.” James stops and looks at him expectantly, and he says, “I want you to kiss me.”

 

“Okay,” James says, and sinks down between his shoulders, pressing his whole body flush against Paul as he noses against Paul’s cheek. For all of James’ bravado and bluster, when their lips finally meet, James is shy and tentative, brushing lightly over Paul’s mouth as his hands flex in Paul’s hair.

 

Apparently, if they leave this up to James nobody is ever getting done, so Paul regretfully lets go of the hold he had on James’ hips—okay, ass—and grabs James by the ears. Paul drags his tongue over James’ lower lip, wet and dirty, and James gasps, which is all the opportunity Paul was waiting for. Paul sinks into James’ mouth and revels in the surprised moan from James that buzzes between them.

 

They make out like that, cradled by the quiet of the morning, until James ruts against Paul’s thigh and then freezes. James rips himself away from Paul—nearly getting his lip torn off in the process, because Paul was really enjoying testing the give of it with his teeth—and says in a rush, “Oh god I’m so sorry let me just—” before throwing himself sideways on the bed, away from Paul.

 

Paul...well, maybe he sees red. A little. Or a lot. “I’m trying to have sex with you!” he shouts, which is probably not his best moment, and then he tackles James bodily, pinning James as he’s making motions to leap off the bed. James is thrashing and Paul is trying to contain all the limbs when James’ thigh slides right between Paul’s legs and along his dick.

 

Paul draws in a sharp breath and circles his hips down, trying to chase the pressure as James pulls his leg away. “You—you really want to?” James stutters, eyes wide and hungry as he looks up at Paul.

 

“Yes,” Paul says, halfway between exasperation and a sigh. There’s a lot more words to be had about the topic, mostly variations on “James, you idiot,” but ‘yes’ is all the important parts of it.

 

“Okay,” James breathes, almost reverent, and then tugs demandingly at Paul’s head, surging up to kiss Paul frantically. All James’ tentativeness is gone, and now he’s bossily kissing Paul, and it’s a good thing Paul isn’t standing because he goes pretty weak at the knees.

 

Paul gives in and drops down onto James, and his dick brushes against James’ stomach. Paul remembers in a flash that James is hard too, and also that he’s allowed to see James’ dick, and waiting another second to do so seems like a crime.

 

Paul pulls away enough to get out a garbled, “James, _please_ ,” as he props himself up on one arm and runs his hand down James’ side until he finds the waistband of James’ boxers to tug at. James stares blankly for a second and then lets go of Paul to help, lifting his hips and kicking them off.

 

“You too,” James says pointedly as Paul stares at James’ cock, and Paul absentmindedly wriggles out of his briefs. He wants to _touch_ it.

 

“Can I?” Paul breathes, reaching towards James’ dick, and James laughs, a little disbelievingly.

 

“Uh, yeah,” James says a little dumbly, and Paul goes for it, wraps his hand around the base. The skin feels a little different, and the heft of it isn’t quite the same—shorter and fatter than his own—and the foreskin is _definitely_ new. Paul jacks it lightly, fascinated by the pull of the foreskin and James’ responsive twitchiness. He tightens his fingers on a downstoke and James bites off a moan before saying insistently, “up up up get _up_ here, Paulie, please,” and Paul obliges.

 

James is a little slack-jawed and Paul fucks into his mouth, trying to keep it in time with his hand. But it’s a lot to coordinate, and the angle is fucked compared to jacking himself off and therefore not feeling great on his wrist, and James still seems into it but not as into it as Paul wants.

 

“I don’t—is there a better way?” Paul asks, frustrated, giving James’ cock a gentle squeeze to make the meaning clear, and James fidgets. “What?”

 

“I, uh, I’ve kind of thought about, um, I think it’ll be easier to,” James says, and goes to move, but Paul isn’t letting him off that easy.

 

“Kind of thought about what?” Paul asks, tries to sound neutral. “Fucking me?”

 

James shrugs, eyes sliding away from Paul’s face. “Well, you’ve never have a boyfriend, and you never brought guys home, so you’ve never—you know—” he says, and gestures down his body. Paul says, “okay, well, yes,” and then waits, because there’s got to be more.

 

James flushes, definitely past aroused and into embarrassed, but he soldiers on. “So I wanted to think of ways to, you know, make it easier the first few times. Like, more like doing it...yourself.”

 

“Oh really,” Paul says. “And did you…do it yourself while you were thinking of these ways?”

 

James pouts at the ceiling and mutters, “maybe,” in a little voice.

 

Paul can’t help himself; he blurts, “that is _so fucking hot_ ,” and aggressively kisses him. James makes a surprised noise and then enthusiastically reciprocates. They get a little lost it in again, and then Paul forces himself to back off and sit up over James.

 

“So,” Paul says down at James, who’s panting and wild-eyed, “what way are we doing this?”

 

James swallows and focuses a little. “Lie—lie down,” he says, and pats the bed next to him; Paul obligingly swings himself off James’ lap and stretches out, propped up on one elbow so he can look at James.

 

James reaches underneath the pillow, pulls out a mostly-new bottle of lube, and squirts some into his hand, capping the bottle and then rubbing his hands to warm the lube. “Okay,” he says, voice a little thready, “I’ll just—for you—” and reaches for Paul’s cock with one hand. It’s slick and warm and it’s James doing it and Paul’s hips jerk as he whines a little, James watching him greedily.

 

“And—” James says, and rolls onto his side with his back to Paul to stick his other hand between his cheeks, spreading lube down across the inside of his thighs too. He wipes his hands on the sheet and then looks over his shoulder at Paul. “Now you come here,” he says, and reaches back for Paul’s hip, and they both wriggle a little gracelessly towards each other.

 

Suddenly their hips meet, and Paul’s dick slides smoothly between James’ ass cheeks. Paul chokes a little and curls in around James’ body, fitting his cock in the space made for it.

 

“That’s it,” James says, throaty and deep, and reaches for the hand Paul has clamped to his hip, laces their fingers together and wraps their hands around his own cock.

 

Paul takes a couple of deep breaths, desperately trying to hold onto his control. Luckily James must get it, because he’s still and quiet, though his dick twitches intermittently in their joined grip.

 

“Okay,” Paul finally says, when he can think again, and he decides it’s an excellent situation. It really is more like jerking himself, and it makes the little differences between their cocks even more apparent, which is still mind-bendingly hot. He experimentally rocks his hips, not even a full thrust, as he drags their hands up James’ dick, and James makes the sweetest choked-off sigh.

 

James bucks back against Paul and then forward into their hands, and now the appeal is really obvious. They cobble together a rhythm, James trapped between the push of Paul’s cock and the pull of his hand. In short order James is moaning continuously, head tipped back on Paul’s shoulder. Paul is gasping each breath in, and he knows it won’t be much longer for him. But he wants to see James come first, wants James’ body to be soft and fucked-out against his, so he pants out, “James, _James_ , you gotta come for me, come on—” and tightens his hand just enough.

 

James gasps, “ _Paulie_ ,” and spasms, and Paul can feel the kick of his cock in their hands as it spurts.

 

“Oh god,” Paul groans, jackrabbiting his hips, and collapses forward against James as his orgasm hits him.

 

James is pliant against Paul, and he’s humming a bit tunelessly like he does when Paul has coffee ready on a rough morning or he’s scored more than once in a game. Paul still feels a bit fuzzy around the edges, he came so hard, but he disentangles the one hand from James’ so he can wrap his arms tightly around James’ middle and tuck his face into the back of James’ neck.

 

“Good plan, right?” James asks, and it’s full of wonder rather than swagger.

 

“Yup,” Paul mumbles. “Now shut up, I’m enjoying this.”

 

Of course, the moment is interrupted when somebody’s phone starts ringing, and James drags himself out of Paul’s arms and up to hang over the end of the bed and investigate the pants they left pooled on the floor. “It’s yours,” James says, face red from being upside-down, and Paul opens his hands up so James can chuck it to him.

 

“What?” Paul snaps into the phone, probably unnecessarily sharp especially considering that he didn’t check the caller ID, and Sid goes, “Jesus, Paul, where the fuck are you? We knocked on your door for like ten minutes, are you really that hung over?”

 

“Oh _shit_ ,” Paul says as James flops up the bed to curl up against Paul’s chest.

 

“Who is it?” James asks.

 

“Who is _that_?” Sid demands.

 

“ _Motherfucker_ ,” Paul says, and hangs up.

 

Later, after Paul concedes that he really does have to leave James or else miss his flight, Duper hands Paul four hundred dollars with a wink. “Only figured it was fair to give you a cut, since I earned it all on you,” and Paul stares at the bills. There’s a chance that it has nothing to do with James, but Duper’s always been freakishly knowledgeable about anything that James gets up to. So probably it’s about James.

 

“Let’s...never talk about this again,” Paul says, and Duper nods.

 

“Nice hickey,” Duper says before jabbing at Paul’s side and sauntering away. Paul’s poking at his neck frantically as Duper’s laugh echos back along the hallway.

 

“He’s not going to buy a house until he finds one that has a kitchen you like,” Duper calls, and Paul groans, dropping his face into his hands.

 

“Dammit, Duper,” Paul yells as loud as he can through his hands, and he can hear Duper cackling all the way down the hall. He can feel the grin splitting his face, though, and the teasing is totally worth how happy he feels.

 

Paul’s phone buzzes in his pocket, and he opens it up to find a text from James: _hi, boyfriend_

  
Yeah, things could be worse.

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hello at [tumblr](itsacoup.tumblr.com)!


End file.
